The white sun is soaking through the smog.
The light drips, gropes its way down
to my deep-down eyes that are resting
deep under the city looking up
seeing the city from below: streets, foundations—
like aerial photos of a city in war
the wrong way around—a mole photo:
silent squares in somber colors.
The decisions are taken there. No telling
bones of the dead from bones of the living.
The sunlight’s volume is turned up,
it floods into flight cabins and peapods.